


Liv-ing in Hope

by htbthomas



Category: iZombie (TV)
Genre: Developing Relationship, F/M, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Ravi POV, Undercover as a Couple
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-29
Updated: 2015-10-29
Packaged: 2018-04-28 09:19:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,086
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5086393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/htbthomas/pseuds/htbthomas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Liv and Ravi go undercover as a couple. Again and again. Each time it just gets a little more... real.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Liv-ing in Hope

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Odyle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Odyle/gifts).



> For Odyle, who wanted Liv/Ravi fake dating undercover. Hope you like!
> 
> Also, this week's episode (Oct. 27) had a similar brain-of-the-week to one of these scenes. I guess you run that risk when you write an open canon. :D
> 
> Thanks to my beta, Ghostcat, who is always a great help. Any mistakes are all mine!

Liv makes a face, her lips twisting up and to the right. “Uck.”

“Brains don’t help the taste, eh?” Ravi suppresses a chuckle—he can’t imagine what it would be like to have such an aversion to food in general. He digs in his jacket pocket for his secret stash of red pepper hot sauce. “Here. Pour it on before the waiter sees you.”

She glances at the bottle in his hand, and her disgust fades into something like a smile. “Aw, that’s sweet, Ravi. But I brought my own, just in case.” She digs in her purse for a moment and pulls out a small glass container. When the concoction flows from the lip of the bottle, it’s a deep purple color.

“What…?” 

“7 Pod Douglah.” She takes a bite, and her eyes roll up in her head. “Oh my god, so much better.”

“I’m going to guess that’s a sort of… pepper?”

“One of the hottest in the world.” She pours a little more on, no, a lot more. “Really brightens up this dish. I should make a suggestion to the chef. If he can _call_ himself that.”

He has to place a hand on her arm to stop her from literally getting up and walking toward the kitchen. “Liv, don’t. We’re here for them, remember?” 

He cuts his eyes pointedly toward the couple two tables over, friends of the murdered sous chef whose death they’re investigating. He only realizes a second later that yes, he does have his hand on her arm, and yes, he likes how it feels. Soft and cool, like chilled silk.

He wants to pull it back in embarrassment, his face flushing as hot as her skin is not. Why couldn’t Detective Babineaux do this undercover job with Liv? Oh, yeah, because he was chasing down another lead and Liv didn’t want to waste the evening—not when each brain-fortified meal only buys her a certain amount of vision time. There’s no way to explain that part to Babineaux, not without consequences.

So he decides, no, he shouldn’t pull his hand back. They’re supposed to be a real couple, on a real date, and really into each other. So instead, he slides his hand down her arm slowly, his eyes catching hers to make sure she understands, his fingers tangling with hers at the end. “Honey. Enjoy your food. Mine’s actually quite good.”

“Maybe to the untrained pala—” Liv sneers. Ravi squeezes her fingers for emphasis, and she subsides. He’s relieved—sometimes her brain-induced personality changes can really take over. “You’re right, sweetie.” She gives him a smile, a touch sickly sweet, but it still kicks him right in the gut.

When she pulls her hand away gently and starts criticizing the “plebeian” menu, he doesn’t even mind.

* * *

“Who, this guy?” Liv adjusts her hardhat and reaches around to pinch Ravi on the bum. “This is my sweet piece of British ass.”

Wha—she—oh Lord, she actually pinched him on the arse! He gasps, he can’t help it, so what if they’re pretending to be a couple again for a case—he absolutely should have insisted she wait for Babineaux. _Really_ , Liv, show some propriety. 

Her coworker, Dave, chortles, his gut shaking over the rim of his too-low belt. “You like ‘em fancy, huh?”

“Oh, yeah, but it really pays off in the bedroom.” Liv elbows him, snorting.

“Livvie,” Ravi chides, blushing. That’s not fake at all. He’s vividly picturing just what she’d be like in the bedroom. An utter savage. He pushes those thoughts away—it only takes a scratch to turn another human into a member of the albino squad.

Liv takes her lunch from Ravi with a nod—it’s a pastrami and brains on rye—“Thanks for bringing this up, hon. Better get back to work.” She saunters off toward the scaffolding where she’d been wielding a nail gun this morning like a pro, whistling.

Dave and Ravi watch her go. Then Dave claps an arm around Ravi’s shoulders, and Ravi has to bite back a yelp. The man has some grip. Perhaps a strong enough grip to choke the life out of one of his mates? Dave pats Ravi a couple times hard. “Hey, you guys should come to the party this weekend! Old Liv there seems like a lot of laughs.”

Score. This was exactly why he’d showed up, not only to save Liv from tasteless vending machine food. “Really? She only just started here…”

“Aw, that don’t matter. Guys, and girls, are in and out of the job so much around here, we keep things social just to get to know each other better.”

He agrees reluctantly, though it’s all show for the suspect. Dave gives him a not-so-light punch in the bicep and wanders off toward his post. Beyond him, Ravi sees Liv shimmy up the ladder into her position as if she were born to it. When she reaches the top, she waves and blows him a kiss. He catches it, his palm warming as if there were real substance to it.

And then as he’s walking away, he swears he hears a wolf whistle from up high. No one could blame him if he puts a little more sway in his step.

* * *

“Just put ‘em over there,” one of the roadies directs him. He nods and rolls the dolly with the amplifier in that general direction. He doesn’t have the slightest idea how to set it up, or which cords go where. 

The next thing he feels is the tickle of breath in his ear. "Put that one at the left corner of the stage, on top of the other one." It's Liv, sounding as knowledgeable as ever.

He turns to see her in a checked flannel shirt and torn jeans. It's suspiciously similar to the way their victim, Jacob, used to dress for concerts. She's almost a mirror image... except she's missing the signature beard.

She leads him to the corner and hefts the amplifier on the other one for him.

"I could have gotten that," he complains.

"And break your pretty nails? It was no problem." She adjust the angle, glancing back at the microphone placement, then adjusts again.

"My— all right, fine." No sense in ruining a good manicure. He does have to keep his hands supple and nails trim for work, he's not going to apologize for that. "You really think one of these guys killed Jacob?"

"I'm not sure. All I'm getting is a hand plugging a patch cord into an amp, and then boom, everything goes sparkly." She brushes against him again, heading toward one of the guitars set carefully on a stand.

He gestures toward the backdrop, a hastily printed _Memorial Tour_ banner added this morning. “So it's got to be someone on the tour," he repeats just to get his mind off the way every touch and even near touch has been making his body vibrate like a picked string lately. Liv doesn't even seem to notice any difference—but would she? She's always wearing someone else's personality and mannerisms, with only brief windows of time between cases. 

She throws him a deprecating look. "Uh, yeah, which is why we are here?" She tilts and shakes her head at the same time. Is that Jacob or Liv? Did she used to do that?

"So we just have to figure out which one of these guys had it in for Jacob." 

She nods distractedly and settles on one of the stools with the guitar on her lap. With the ease of years of practice, she starts to pick out a melody with her fingers. 

He never listens to folk music, his tastes run more to electronica or a little Bach, but the complicated flow of notes that come from Liv's fingers is entrancing. When she sweetly tangles her voice with the notes, Ravi is lost. He doesn't even know what she's singing (he never notices the lyrics of a song, anyway), but it feels like she's singing straight to him, her eyes locking with his.

"Hey!"

Liv stops playing at the sound. Ravi feels as jagged as a snapped string. "Too soon?" she asks the guy who interrupted.

The man frowns furiously. "That's my number tonight, okay? _My_ tribute to Jake." This must be Ryan, Jacob's tour partner.

"Right, which is why I was testing the sound..."

Impatient, Ryan holds out his hand for the neck of the guitar. "I'll test my own sound, thanks."

Liv rolls her eyes and hands it to Ryan. She takes her time getting off the stool, one slow leg at a time, as if she's goading him to snap. Once again Ravi thinks, is that Liv or Jacob? Liv can be a real smartarse no matter which brains she's on.

As they're heading off the stage, the first notes of the same song ring out behind them and Liv's step catches. Her eyes go wide and she grabs on to Ravi's arm for balance. He stays there, silent support, trying not to hyperfocus on the touch of her fingers on his skin, until she takes a deep breath and relaxes again. 

"Vision?" he asks quietly. 

"Oh yeah. Seems Ryan and Jacob wrote that song together, and Jacob took all the credit." She looks back at Ryan, who is about halfway through the chorus now. "Jacob played it better."

Ravi listens a little longer, then shakes his head. " _You_ played it better."

Liv shrugs. "Same diff."

Later, at the concert, when she's clapping and laughing and singing along with the band, he knows she could outplay anyone on stage. When she leans up against him and threads her fingers through his to sing along with the tribute song, he's not sure it matters.

* * *

"How much fer this fine blade?" Liv leans down, her tight bodice right in the vendor's face. Ravi’s lost count of how many faces have gotten this close to her cleavage today. That shouldn't bother him but it does. 

The vendor looks up into her eyes, not her boobs. It's a Renaissance faire, he probably sees more boobs than he can shake a sword at. "This for you, milady, or your squire?" he asks.

Ravi bristles. "Squire?"

"It's all for me, good sir." With a lascivious smile, Liv runs a hand down Ravi's chest, stopping just short of— "My lord's sword is more than adequate, I assure you."

Ravi's skin heats, he's sure he's actually glowing. She's become a master at that. But he tries to swallow down his awkward urge to giggle and also to suppress the awkward erection growing in his pants. _Dādī in a bikini, Dādā's nose hairs..._ "Verily," he manages, in a completely manly way. Yes.

Liv lets out a bawdy laugh, and throws him a brilliant smile. His knees go a little weak, but she doesn't seem to notice, focused more on the sword. Thank god.

These undercover couple assignments are getting harder and harder... especially since he's not doing a lot of acting anymore. He doesn't know how much longer he can keep up the pretense that this is only for the job. 

Liv, on the other hand... he watches her flirt with the vendor a little longer, trying to narrow down who might have made the blade that killed their Ren-faire aficionado victim. They're hitting every stall, every sword fight, until she gets hit with a vision.

Liv lifts the blade and spars against an imaginary enemy, her skirts kicking up as she moves. She starts to draw a crowd. And why not? It isn't every day you see a porcelain angel in a tight corset wielding a sword like a master.

Porcelain angel? This is getting ridiculous. He really should have asked Detective Babineaux to take this one, but now it’s become a regular _thing_ —whenever Liv needs to go undercover, she asks Ravi. There's not even a discussion. Plus, he has to admit, it really is a lot easier, Ravi knows exactly what's behind these brain-enhanced split personalities of hers. And the longer it keeps Babineaux from guessing the truth, the better.

While he's musing, Liv has finished playing swordmaster, curtsied for her audience and has come over to place a kiss on his cheek. "Fancy going to the arena?"

"Anything for you, m’love." He's sorry he said it immediately, even if he is pretending to be the smitten boyfriend.

Something flashes in her eyes a moment, something not belonging to the bawdy Ren faire wench. She freezes, eyes distant. Another vision then. What did he say that triggered it? Did the victim's paramour commit the murder?

She blinks and threads her hand through his arm. "Let us go."

"Your vision," he says when they're away from the weapons stall. "What did you see?"

"Vision?" She looks up at him, confused, but soon her face clears. She looks toward the ground, not meeting his eyes. "It was... a bit confusing. Need to ponder it a bit more."

That was... weird. He might be imagining it, but he swears she keeps glancing at him when she thinks he isn't looking.

And she never explains her vision, not even after the case is solved.

* * *

Ravi sits down across from Liv typing away at her laptop. She's got a steaming cup of coffee beside her, and it actually looks like it's more than a prop—probably surreptitiously dosed with hot sauce—or cinnamon liquor —before he arrived. He lifts his phone. "You texted?"

"Yeah." She doesn't look up, but she stops typing, hitting backspace repeatedly, then typing a word before deleting it again. She purses her lips, then types another word. "Place is a pretty decent hangout." She deletes again.

"You writing the great American novel?" he teases, sliding around to get a look.

Her eyes fly up to his then, and she smacks him on the arm, hard. Is that a little zombie blood rage coloring her sclera? It recedes right away, and she frowns. "Sorry. It's not ready yet."

His eyes widen. “You really are? I was just joking with you. Our insurance adjustor was a secret novelist, then?” 

She shrugs, typing again. “I'm not sure. I haven't had a vision yet. Just a pull toward this place, and a need to write.”

So if there was no vision, no urgent call to pretend to be a couple… “Then… why’d you ask me to meet you for coffee?”

“I—” Her fingers freeze, hovering above the keyboard. “I don't know why. It's just become…”

“... Become the norm. I get it.” Ravi sits back in his chair. “I didn't even question it.”

Her fingers are still hovering over the keys, and she locks eyes with him, panic flickering over her features. “Neither did I.” All of a sudden, she's slamming the laptop lid shut, and rushing for the entrance before he can stop her. 

Not that he could, she's strong, even when she's not in full-on zombie mode. When he gets to the street, he calls after her. “Liv, please!”

She slows, which Ravi takes as a good sign, but she doesn't stop. 

Her panic could be brains-induced, but it doesn't feel like it. He’s been wondering all this time if his growing feelings one-sided or not. Maybe they're not? “Liv, what's wrong?”

She stops, leaning against a light post, and sighs. “We can't do this, Ravi.”

“Do what?”

She gives him a look that is all Liv, no matter whose brains she's on. “Just… don't. I can't be acting on feelings for you. Not as long as I'm like this…” She gestures to her pale face and hair. “...and you're not. You know how that went with Major.”

“Spectacularly badly,” he finds himself saying then the light actually comes on. “Wait, feelings?” His voice cracks a little with hope. 

She just mutely hands him the laptop, which he opens with curiosity. He reads the paragraphs quickly, heart beating so loud he bets it's as loud as a roar to Liv. _“He curls his bronzed arm around her tiny waist.” / “As their mouths finally touch, a flower of passion blooms within her breast.” / “He lays her down on a bed of white lilies, her platinum hair disappearing into their softness.”_... Ravi can't help but read aloud, “She lets out a moan of satisfied longing when their bodies join…”

Liv snatches the laptop back. “All right, that's enough, Morgan Freeman. I don't know what our guy wrote, but all I seem to want to write are bodice-rippers.” She grimaced, embarrassed. “Featuring tawny bearded men and pale, fragile women.”

He takes a step toward her. “You're far from fragile.”

“Maybe on the outside,” she says quietly. 

He wavers for a moment, though all he wants to do is wrap her in his arms and hold her until her fears subside. She keeps people at arm’s length for a good reason, the best reason… 

“Aw, bollocks.” He closes the rest of the distance and draws her into a hug. She melts into him like she’s finally letting go of something. “We’re gonna figure this out, Liv,” he tells her, stroking her hair. “This isn’t forever.” He gently kisses the crown of her hair, wishing he could do more. Someday they will, there _will_ be another dose of the cure.

And suddenly, Liv tilts her head back, and it’s not a someday anymore, it’s a now. She’s soft and insistent and her fingers coming up to curl in the hair at the nape of his neck are turning him to fire against her ice.

It’s over too soon. But it has to be. 

“Ravi?” She bites her lip, and he can see the gentle let down she’s just holding back.

“That was nice,” he says. “To be continued. When we beat this thing.”

“Yeah.” Her smile shows her relief.

He slides a hand down her arm and entwines his fingers with hers. “How much longer until the writer brains wear off?”

She laughs and thinks for a moment. “Taking an average of the previous cases over the last year, I’d say we’re looking at 1.734 more days.”

“So specific?”

She taps her head. “Got some of the insurance adjustor part in there, too.”

“Well,” he says, “Bodice-ripper or not, I was quite enjoying the tale you were spinning. More coffee for more words?” 

“Ah, you know the way to a writer’s heart. Have you dated one before?” 

He grins—she didn't stumble over the word ‘dated’ at all. “I am now.”


End file.
